


Don't think about it

by ElianB



Series: What feels right: offshoot fics [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Bruce Wayne is a Parent, Bruce is just a moron, Dick Grayson is Robin, Dissociation, Done for a 'good reason' though it's a horrible thing to do, Emotional Manipulation, Fear of Abandonment, Fear of Not Being Wanted, Gen, Inconsistent Parenting, Leaning more towards the bad end of the spectrum in this one, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, The self-harm is explicit and is not romanticized, Though concern is reasonable. Execution of that concern is awful, it's a sad one folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-23 21:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21088343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElianB/pseuds/ElianB
Summary: While forcibly returning Dick home from a patrol he wasn't supposed to be on, on account of he's not currently cleared to be going out as Robin, Bruce says some things that get to him. Dick doesn't end up coping well.





	Don't think about it

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place within my "What feels right" series, technically. Hence the "What feels right: offshoot fics" series that this fic has been placed in. You don't have to read that series to understand this fic. Mostly because it takes place a few years past the time period of the fics currently in the series (I'm feeling this fic as being when Dick is 16) so the context is different even though it's the same universe. Also, when I say it "technically" takes place in that universe, I mean everything is the same, but I don't want this to be canon. I might change my mind about that and move this to the series proper at a later date, but right now... I don't think this type of self-destruction is actually the direction I want to go in for Dick with the main series. The tensions that are present between him and Bruce in this fic, on the other hand, are probably going to pop up there whenever I get to this period.
> 
> Anyway. Most of that is only relevant if you're reading my "What feels right" series. Actual warning for everybody: Please be gentle with yourself, this is a vent fic so it does have self-harm. If you're reading this as a means to ease the urge, I hope it helps.
> 
> I'm thinking I'll revisit this specific offshoot in a few other fics at some point in the future, pursuing Dick's mental/emotional healing process by hitting a few other points in his life where he falls on self-harm as a coping mechanism and gradually overcomes it. But any kind of continuation is something that might not happen for a while because I want to be more familiar with the Teen Titans comics before I try anything like that.

Dick was unamused and, frankly, livid.

He was strapped into the passenger seat of the Batmobile, handcuffs – that he was steadily working off – on his wrists, and his poor, vulnerable ears being subject to a seemingly unending lecture. Any time he tried to get a word in, Bruce just talked louder, not letting him get enough of a hold in the discussion to turn the one-sided rant into an actual conversation.

Dick had been on forced leave from hero business for the past few days. It wasn’t ideal, but it was normal and expected for the level of injuries he’d had the night Bruce had grounded him from duty. Also normal was Bruce’s resistance when Dick had felt ready to start going back out.

What wasn’t normal was Bruce dragging him back to the Batcave in the middle of patrol because Dick, having decided Bruce was being overprotective, had gone out as Robin anyway. Usually Bruce would sigh, conveying a sense of disapproval at Dick’s actions that felt more obligatory than genuine, and ultimately welcome Robin along for the rest of patrol after his presence had been revealed. The following night everything would be back to normal, Dick’s ban on hero work lifted, and the fact that Bruce had never technically given his permission for Dick to go out in the first place would go unmentioned.

For some reason, Bruce had decided to break the typical pattern tonight. Something about Dick’s ‘increasing recklessness’ if Dick had to hazard a guess based on the rant he was trying his best to ignore.

He sank low in his seat, glaring at the dashboard and biting down on the inside of his cheek while furiously picking at the handcuff’s lock, so angry he wasn’t even trying to be particularly discreet about it. He’d given up trying to talk to Bruce a few minutes ago, realizing that he was wasting his time and efforts.

Not only was Bruce dragging him back home like some misbehaving child, but he’d gone and subdued him right in front of the criminals they’d taken down. It was _embarrassing_. _Humiliating_. And worse, Dick was _positive_, Bruce had done it on purpose. Some messed up way of trying to teach him to listen. His teeth sunk deeper into the skin of his cheek and he forced his jaw to unclench, not wanting to tear the skin, though the spiteful part of himself found the thought of spitting a mouthful of blood in Bruce’s direction disturbingly appealing.

Instead he settled for grinding his teeth.

He’d been noticing it lately. Bruce getting pushier. He’d always been pushy about school and Dick taking a few days off to heal, but it’d been getting worse as Dick got older. It was almost ironic, in the stupidest way ever, that Bruce had afforded him more agency when he was 11 than now when he was 16 with years more experience and skill than when he’d started out.

Bruce was listening less, getting angry more.

And tonight? Physically removing Dick from Gotham’s streets? It was ridiculous and if Bruce would just shut up for five seconds Dick would tell him so.

“What do I have to do, Dick? Start locking away your suit when you shouldn’t be going out? Is that the level of distrust we’ve reached?” Bruce demanded, the questions finally drawing Dick’s attention fully back to him.

“What?” Dick asked, so startled he nearly dropped his lockpicks. “You can’t lock the suit away, it’s _mine_!” Bruce, for the first time that evening, actually allowed Dick’s objection to be heard, whether because his questions hadn’t been rhetorical or because he’d finally run out of things to say, Dick wasn’t sure and, in the face of a threat to have his suit physically unattainable to him for any length of time, he didn’t particularly care.

“I told you I wanted you to hang up Robin until Alfred gave the okay,” Bruce replied, not even sparing Dick a glance, his gaze fixed firmly out the windshield.

“But I feel _fine_! And I fought those guys back there,” Dick jerked his body, trying to indicate the scene they’d left behind without use of his hands, “just _fine_, too!”

“But I _told you_-”

“But you _never mean it_!” Dick suddenly exploded, the words tearing out of his throat, a bit shrill. “What you’re doing right now,” Dick stomped a foot for emphasis, feeling childish even as he did it, but also feeling a sense of satisfaction that came with throwing his body into motion with his words, “isn’t normal! So just spit it out! What’s actually going on!?”

Dick could see Bruce’s jaw clench. In the ensuing moment of silence, Dick regathered himself and got back to work on the picking the handcuffs. If he had to go through the indignity of Bruce uncuffing him after they got home, he really was going to absolutely lose it.

Finally, Bruce said, plainly, almost detached, as if he were reading the details of a business merger, “I don’t want you on this case.”

Dick rolled his eyes. Figures that _that_ was the _actual_ problem. This was another block he would run into with Bruce from time to time, but Bruce always saw his way in the end. They were a team for a reason. “You really think you can take the case without me?”

Bruce’s hands clenched on the steering wheel. “I know that I can.”

Dick frowned. Something about the way Bruce said that… he didn’t like it. Still he shook his head, dismissively, ignoring it, already planning on slipping out again after Bruce left if he really refused to be talked out of whatever nonsensical notion he’d gotten stuck in his head about Dick needing to be protected from the case they were working on.

“You’re acting like I’m helpless. I know what I’m doing,” Dick said, one cuff coming open. He started working on the other, the better mobility of his wrists making a noticeable improvement in the ease of his lockpicking. Bruce just sighed, not replying, so Dick went back to his main line of concern, stating, “You can’t lock up my suit. And even if you tried, I’d just find a way to get it anyway.”

“Dick, honestly.” Bruce sounded exhausted.

The second cuff came off. Dick slid the lockpick back into its little compartment in one of his gloves. Just in time, because they were pulling up to the cave entrance.

A pause, then. “I won’t lock up the suit. But you’re not going to be involved in this case.” The entrance opened and Bruce took off down the tunnel. Another pause, and then, his tone steely “You’d only serve as a distraction for me. These are child traffickers, Dick. They almost captured you the other night. I can’t trust you with this one.”

The words were like ice dumped into Dick’s stomach.

Bruce turned to look at him, only the displeased set of his mouth visible with his cowl on, and said, “Just stay home.” Then, almost as an afterthought, as he pulled the Batmoblie to a stop, “I’ll have Alfred stick with you.” The ‘so you don’t run off as soon as I’m gone’ was heavily implied.

Dick pressed his lips together, his plans of sneaking out utterly demolished, nothing more than a burning wreckage, the heat taking up residence behind his eyes, and- he ripped the car door open, refusing to cry, or, barring the actual feasibility of that, refusing to do it in Bruce’s presence.

“Don’t bother,” he snapped, stalking off towards the showers to wash himself up and change into a pair of the pajamas he had stored down here. “I’ll just go to my room.” He clenched his fists, fingernails digging into his palms.

Bruce didn’t reply.

Dick didn’t end up crying. Not as he got undressed, pulling his Robin suit off, mechanically; not after he got into the shower; not as he stared dismally at the stall wall, hot water fogging up the air, making it almost too thick to breath, wondering if he’d really messed up that bad the other night, wondering how he could do better.

He tugged too aggressively on his hair as he washed it, scrubbed his skin too roughly, hit the wall with a sudden hot flush of rage.

But he didn’t cry.

His pajamas were an old t-shirt and shorts and he was debating forgoing them in favor of workout clothes so he could put in some time training, when there was a knock near the bathroom entrance.

“Master Dick?” Alfred called. “Master Bruce informed me that you were staying in for the evening. Is everything all right? You’ve been in there for quite a while.”

Thoughts of training immediately drained from Dick’s mind.

Bruce had…

He’d really had Alfred come down here like Dick needed some kind of _babysitter_?

Dick felt a sort of buzzing in his body as he processed that.

He knew Alfred’s presence didn’t mean he couldn’t work on improving his skills, on making himself better for next time, but-

_Is that the level of distrust we’ve reached?_

The words revisited him like a punch to the gut, the threat of tears rushing up again, but he forced them down. They settled thick in his chest, an odd nauseous feeling taking up residence in his stomach.

“I’m fine, Alfred,” he called towards the bathroom entrance, grabbing his pajamas and pulling them on. He didn’t want to be in the cave anymore. “Just finishing up.”

When Dick exited the bathroom, Alfred was waiting nearby for him. He had a mug in hand, steam rising out of it – hot chocolate or apple cider, Dick supposed, a consolation for being dropped off at home like an unwanted package. Or a puppy too foolish to see when it wasn’t needed.

Or wanted.

Dick didn’t much feel like eating anything, but he still took the cup from Alfred with a faint, “Thank you.” The smell of cinnamon and apple drifted up to him; cider then. He placed the hand that wasn’t gripping the handle onto the mug itself for a better hold.

It was hot.

“Did you want to wait here for Master Bruce to return?”

Dick shook his head. The mug was beginning to burn his hand, but he breathed through it. The tingling pain of it settled his stomach, though it didn’t make his head feel all that much clearer.

“I’m just going to go up to my room. Like I _told_ Bruce.” Dick glanced up from the mug, catching Alfred’s gaze. He was watching Dick closely, a vague concern in the slight narrowing of his eyes.

Dick smiled.

The concern dissipated, fond exasperation taking its place. “I’m certain Master Bruce will miss seeing you before he heads off to bed, but if this is what you want, I’ll give him your regards.”

The words ‘He’s not going to miss me’ rose up in Dick’s throat, like vomit, but he bit them back. Instead he nodded. “Thanks Alfred.” His voice was a bit strained and he was left hoping Alfred hadn’t noticed as he slipped past him and up the staircase leading into the manor.

He made his way swiftly through the house, not stopping until he reached his room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

He set the mug of cider down on his bedside table, the palm that had been pressed to it bright red and faintly throbbing. He stared, poked at the skin, then shook his head and his hand out.

He walked over to his desk, opening drawers, looking through his ongoing projects for something to occupy his time. It was late, but not nearly as late as he usually stayed up on the weekends and he doubted he’d be able to fall asleep. He briefly entertained the idea of calling a friend to complain, but really wasn’t in the mood. He didn’t want to talk.

As he was riffling through folders, a cluster of pens and pencils rolled towards the front of the drawer he was in. He spared them a quick glance, their soft clatter having drawn his attention, then returned to the folders.

He paused.

His gaze dropped back to the collection of pens and pencils. Mixed among them was an x-acto knife.

He’d actually been looking for it a couple weeks ago, needing it for the decorations on a presentation board, but had deemed it hopelessly lost and settled for using a Batarang instead.

He dropped the folders he’d been rifling through and grabbed the knife, rolling its handle between his fingers.

His other hand was still throbbing, faintly.

There was a swooping sensation in his stomach. A thought he didn’t want to consciously acknowledge, prodding, pushing, raging against the wall of his resistance.

He took a step back from his desk, licked his lips, glanced from the knife to his door.

It was quiet.

His heartbeat was thundering, but at the same time felt so weak.

He twirled the blade, playing with it, almost absentmindedly if it weren’t so intentional; so blatantly an attempt at postponing.

And all he could think about was what Bruce had said. That he couldn’t trust him. That he was a distraction. That he didn’t need his help.

And all he could think about was the implications of those words. That he was a disappointment. That he was worthless. That he wasn’t wanted.

He felt sick. A sickness deep, deep, deep in the hallow of his chest, in the pit of his stomach, in the very make up of his soul.

He felt _sick_.

He wasn’t even sure what he wanted, really, when he stopped twirling the knife – hadn’t let himself actually have the thought and definitely hadn’t even broached the prospect of considering ‘why’ he would do it.

One second, he was toying with the knife.

The next, he was dragging it diagonally across his inner arm.

The funny thing was, it didn’t make him feel less sick.

The funny thing was, it made him feel more sick.

The funny thing was, as he stared at what he’d done, he finally started to cry.

A giggle bubbled its way up his throat but cut itself off on a shuddering gasp.

He dropped the knife as the wave of sickness really slammed into him, a roiling in his stomach, profuse sweating, elevated heartrate. The blood welled over the cut, trailing a couple of lines down his arm.

He felt his head slip up, up, up. A buzzing in his ears.

He lurched towards the bathroom, realized he was trembling, fumbled with the door. When he got it open, he went straight for the toilet paper, getting a wad of it and pressing it over the cut.

The- the- the-

The scrape, really.

Just a-

It was just a- barely-

The blood was seeping through the toilet paper, a visible stain when he lifted his hand from it.

Another roiling wave of dizzy sickness.

Just a scrape.

It was just a scrape.

He peeled the toilet paper off of his arm, dropping it into the toilet and replacing it with a fresh wad.

He leaned against the sink, closing his eyes, feeling impossibly shaky as he gasped out breaths and tears slipped from his eyes and his nose began to run.

He reached blindly for the toilet paper roll again, not wanting to open his eyes, finding some level of comfort in the dark, with nothing more than the pressure on his arm and the sting of the- scrape. It was harder to be present, but less disorienting, too – easier to be in a consuming blanket of darkness than to be in a familiar place with little recognition of familiar things. When he got his hands on the roll, he got another wad, this time using it to blow his nose, dropping it where he thought the wastebasket was when he was done.

He ended up sliding to the floor, his back to the sink cupboards, the handles digging into the skin of his back uncomfortably. He sat there for a while with his eyes closed. Just breathing. Slowly he settled, started crying again, resettled.

When he opened his eyes, the light of the room felt harsh. He sniffled, squinting, spared a quick glance down at his arm and then avoided looking in its direction altogether, peeling the toilet paper off and stretching to drop it in the toilet without actually getting up.

He didn’t think he was bleeding anymore, but his arm still stung.

He gingerly pushed himself to his feet and stood for a moment, not moving. He then shook his head, as if snapping himself out of a stupor, and grabbed his toothbrush.

He felt exhausted, limbs heavy, eyelids puffy, chest stuffed with weight. He brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth, barely paying attention to his reflection – it unnerved him, felt off, he didn’t want to look at it. Then he shuffled from the bathroom to his bedroom, turning off the lights behind him. He collapsed into bed, pulling the blankets over him and snuggling in deep.

When he woke in the morning, the cider was still sitting on his night stand, cold and untouched. The- scrape on his arm had scabbed over, the skin around it bright pink and a bit raised.

He’d forgotten about it entirely until he’d caught sight of it.

He traced it with his finger, dazed.

It looked ugly.

He couldn’t let Bruce see.

**Author's Note:**

> The logic of the situation Dick and Bruce were talking about in the car is: the child traffickers took out Dick, hurting him enough that he needed a couple days to recover, and while he was down, they thought they might as well try to snatch him up because who wouldn't pay a decent fortune for Robin? Bruce stopped the men trying to take off with him.
> 
> In the car, when Bruce told Dick "You're only serving as a distraction for me" and "I can't trust you with this one" he was intentionally twisting his words to hurt Dick and make him want to stay home. The first statement is true, but if he was being genuine, he never would have said it in such a cold, victim-blaming way. The second one is just straight-up a lie, or at least a very liberal reconstruction of the sentiment "I'm too worried about you and the thought of what could happen to you to let you take part in this case with me."


End file.
